


curtain call, watch me crawl

by timeless_alice



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically, Canon-Typical The Stranger Content (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Puppets, prose heavy because i have symptoms disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeless_alice/pseuds/timeless_alice
Summary: While kidnapped by the Circus, Jon learns that Nikola has plans for him that involve dabbling in the grey area between the Stranger and the Web.Less a suit for the dance of the Unknowing, more like a windup doll.---"So what," he said. "You kill me and call it done? Steal my skin for some kind of...of skin suit?""Oh no, Archivist. Where would the fun in that be?"
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	curtain call, watch me crawl

In a long forgotten storage basement, with its assorted odds and ends left to collect mold and dust, Nikola prowled around Jon like a hungry cat. She kept whatever counted for eyes - flat and emotionless and eternally staring - on him, where he had been roughly bound to a chair by ones Breekon and Hope. His arms ached from straining against their bindings; a cruel corner of his terror-struck mind informed him that even if the knots had been tied any way less than expertly, he would not have the strength to break them. All the while his heart pounded a furious staccato in his chest, roaring in his ears. Even so, his jaw was set and his brow was furrowed, and he hoped he looked bolder than he felt.

"So what," he said, fighting back the tremble that threatened to spill out of his throat. He tried to add a bite to his tone, an anger scrapped together from whatever he could conjure up. "You kill me and call it done? Steal my skin for some kind of...of _skin suit_?" The words faltered over the fear that poised to strangle his voice, stumbling to the finish line even as he spoke them. The façade cracked, and he deflated a little at how pathetic he sounded.

From his position as a fixed point on the floor, he twisted as best he could to keep eyes on her until she at last vanished from view. It was there that the soft tapping of her boots came at long last to a halt, and the absence of noise sent a new wave of dread crashing through him. He strained against resistant muscles and the damnable limits of anatomy to see where she had stopped, until a dull ache settled into the line of his shoulders. For his trouble he only managed to see the time rotted boxes that had been left behind, and only then in his periphery, beyond the frames of his glasses and leaving their shapes blurred.

"Oh _no_ , Archivist. Where would the fun in that be?"

Her words curled with the kind of fake offense that came with the familiarity of old friends, and the sound of her false voice sent a chill down Jon's spine. He turned to face forward, toward the door set into the far wall opposite him; head ducked low soon after, the bitter certainty that his placement was its own form of teasing mockery burning in the bit of his stomach. He squeezed eyes shut against the dim lighting of the basement, as if doing so would shut the whole world out and he could pretend he was somewhere, anywhere, else. The deep breath he took, an attempt to steady nerves that were always on edge, carried with it the smell of dust and decay and above all else _plastic_ ; he fought to keep from whimpering as he exhaled, keeping it as steady as he was able, even as the stench of the fake lingered in his nose, almost thick enough to taste as it settled heavy on his tongue.

The resumption of her movements was marked by the whisper soft padding of leather soles against concrete and the creaking of unnatural joints that were never meant to move as she did. It was only in a dim and distant way Jon noticed this, the sound that should have been thunderously echoing almost lost in the frantic thrum of blood in his ears. His body reacted before conscious mind realized that she had closed the distance between them; shoulders stiffened and skin crawled, hands pulling at the binds once more, rough rope cutting into wrists already rubbed raw until he could feel the warmth of a light trickle of blood running down the ridge of his palm. And then there were fingers, stiff and unyielding as no human thing could be, curling through the thick strands of hair that had long since fallen from band that had held it all together; fisted hand close to the scalp for better leverage, until the grip itself was painful as hair pulled taut against skin.

Jon could not help his cry as Nikola yanked back. Eyes snapped open, greeted by the sight of the ceiling with its bare scaffolding and rotted wood, and he strained to see her in his periphery. The smooth features of painted plastic stared at him, with her hovering just over his shoulder.

"I was thinking more like..." Her head tilted as she thought, mouth unmoving, and a finger of her free hand traced a line behind his ear. He shuddered at her touch - cold, too cold, as plastic ghosted along skin - and tried to pull away, but she held fast, even tilting his head away from her to expose more of the fragile skin of his neck. His breathing became labored, loud in that quiet place as he fought to draw enough air to his lungs through a throat closed off by panic and newly applied pressure against his windpipe. "Like a windup doll!"

Fingers unwound from his hair and without her propping him up, Jon slumped forward until he was only held by his binds; agony laced up his arms, pounding against the terror that was laying greedy claws in him, but it was only just registering in the frayed edges of his mind.

"I don't know why _Elias_ always gets to have all the fun," she went on, though he only heard her through miles of static that clouded his thoughts and clogged his ears. "And don't worry, Archivist!"

He flinched away from her, muscles between his shoulders coiling until they hurt, that instinctive part of his mind that had wrested control half expecting her to pat his cheek in some mockery of reassurance. But she made no move to touch him, only continued to linger by his shoulder; she creaked all the while, as she did _something_ just out of his view. Underneath and far away from all that whirling terror, there was something detached curling through his mind. It wondered in a whisper that was more like the beginning of a gnawing hunger, what she was up to. To look up and consider her, categorize all that she was doing in that moment. But he did not look, instead squeezing his eyes shut once again.

"It won't be that bad," she went on, laying a hand against his back for what could have been an eternity but was more like a heartbeat before pulling away; Jon turned his face from her, teeth digging into lip so hard that he thought he might bleed. In turn she tutted softly at him, like a mother scolding an unruly child. "You'll still be _you,_ just a bit of a rework here and there so you're loyal to _us_. It's no worse than what _Elias_ does, really!"

He wished he understood why her emphasis on Elias' name was so strange, as if it of all things felt odd against her stolen vocal folds that seemed so content with their cheery tones.

"I know _he_ 's planning something that will interfere with our Dance, and who better to figure it out for us than his little pet _Archivist_?" Her voice was a sing song that lay barbs through flesh and into bone. "I'm told it doesn't hurt very much, just a few pinches and its over!" She hummed in uncertainty, before adding, "Well, I'm sure it hurts less than the Not Them, at any rate."

That detached part of his thoughts gathered the pieces in its hungry maw, fitting them together to present to him much like a cat presenting a dead animal: a doll with its key wound by Nikola, set down to go through the motions while doing whatever she wanted of him. Despite all his best efforts Jon whimpered, ever so softly, his chest tightening and eyes burning. 

"I-I thought," he stuttered out, forced through strangled throat, "I thought that sort of thing was someone else's domain?"

It was a dumb thing to say. He knew it was, even without that small voice in his head informing it was stupid. Nikola _tsk_ ed, the sound of it growing distant as she moved away from him and towards the door. He did not look up, did not watch her depart through the hair he could feel had fallen across his forehead to obscure vision.

"I'm sure Annabelle won't mind me dabbling in our overlap," she said. "We hardly indulge in it. Now, you stay put, I'll be back!"

There was no wash of light from the outside with the opening of the door and the soft click of the latch that followed. No clattering of a lock being set, either, so sure she was that he would not be leaving this place without her say so. It was only then that he straightened, head lolling back as he tried to slow the labor of his breathing and tried to ignore the ache in his limbs; the agony that laced up his leg from the wound in his hip left behind by the Prentiss attack was keen to take command of his attention. He blinked eyes open as soon as frantic gasps turned to something slower, more manageable, and he cast gaze around the room. Looking for something, anything at all, that may help him escape. But there was nothing but old boxes and himself, and what would he have been able to do to escape, bound as he was?

There was not even a door that should not be there manifesting out of the dark. Not even to kill him.

In the still of the room that Jon now found himself horribly alone in, he curled in on himself as best he could. Terror clawed its way back up his throat, and he let it fill every corner of him until there was nothing left. With no one else to see, he allowed himself to weep with that fear, tears building at his eyelashes to fall past and trace the lines and scars of his face. In their wake they left behind burning trails against trembling skin.

All that was left to do was wait.

**Author's Note:**

> this idea was inspired by the transformers comics. and also the fact i find the loss of autonomy via puppets to be scary
> 
> anyway
> 
> title from 'robbing banks' by autoheart (that whole song is jon but that verse in particular is v stranger)
> 
> find me on tumblr at timelessmulder c:


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